


Twas the night before Christmas

by Azile_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:42:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2948522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azile_Teacup/pseuds/Azile_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: pnuemonia</p><p>Gwaine takes Arthur to meet the family, but Arthur's stubborn insistence that he's fine is not entirely correct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twas the night before Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: vague mention of Irish troubles (really really vague), and the religious stuff that comes with that, illness
> 
> This one alluded me. I had no ideas for plot or anything, so it's basically just a meandering wander through various tropes and random stuff. I hope someone likes it.

It’s dark when they arrive at Gwaine’s childhood home and Arthur’s completely out, drooling on the rental’s window, snoring loudly. Gwaine’s pretty sure there’s some snot there, too. He wakes Arthur up with a handful of tissues.

 

“Hnghh,” Arthur says, snorts, then glances at Gwaine and takes the tissues, “thanks.”

 

Gwaine shakes his head and pulls out another handful.

 

“Honestly, this is ridiculous. Come on, I’ll introduce you but then it’s bedtime.”

 

“Such a mother hen,” Arthur says.

 

It comes out extremely congested.

 

“Yes, well, pneumonia has a way of worrying me.”

 

Gwaine gets out before Arthur can go into how it probably isn’t pneumonia and how the doctors are probably wrong and how he’s actually, completely fine. Gwaine has all the bags out on the pavement by the time Arthur manages to get himself out of the car. Gwaine shakes his head and goes to wrap an arm around Arthur's waist.

 

“I’m fine,” Arthur says.

 

“Of course you are, darling. However, it is icy out here and whether you have pneumonia or simply a cold (it is pneumonia, though), your sinuses are clogged, your balance is off and you’re not used to the conditions. So. Let’s go inside.”

 

“The bags.”

 

“Sean can bring in the bags. Come on, come on, come on, shuffle onwards.”

 

Arthur starts to walk, slides, then shuffles as suggested. He does actually accept Gwaine’s help on the steps and leans on him, which lets Gwaine know that he’s had enough for today. Gwaine presses the bell and waits, grinning, wider and wider as he hears the sound of bickering coming closer. The door’s flung open by Sean, Jenny at his shoulder, both scowling.

 

“I told you it was just Gwaine! I told you we should just let him let himself in. Honestly, Sean, now he’s just gonna make us go get his bags! Just cus you’re oldest doesn’t mean we’re your slaves,” Jenny says, “this is your fault, Sean.”

 

Gwaine beams at them and holds out his arms, and both teenagers throw themselves into his hug.

 

“Aw, you guys!” Gwaine says, “It’s so good to see you both!”

 

He squeezes until Jenny squeaks, then lets them go.

 

“Jenny is right, though. Go get our bags.”

 

“’Our’ bags?” Sean says, grin splitting his freckled face.

 

Arthur steps forward and waves, then turns away and hacks into his current handful of tissues.

 

“That’s Arthur,” Gwaine says, raising an eyebrow, “that is why you’re getting the bags. Also because you are my slaves.”

 

Sean snorts, but tugs on his shoes and coat. Jenny just stares at Arthur in disgust.

 

“That is disgusting,” she says.

 

Arthur’s still coughing, and as nice as it is to see his siblings and as fun as it is going to be teasing Arthur about this at some point, Gwaine decides that it’s time to help out. He pulls Arthur into the hallway, pushing Jenny aside gently, and sits Arthur on the stairs.

 

“Hey, easy. Come on,” Gwaine says, holding Arthur’s shoulder, “easy.”

 

Arthur gasps for breath and coughs again, harder. Gwaine winces as something loosens in Arthur’s chest.

 

“I am not playing phlegm catcher forever,” Gwaine mutters.

 

He does hold tissues for Arthur to spit into, though. Which is the moment his mother decides to walk in on.

 

“Ah, Gwaine! You made it!” she sings, swaying down the hall with a glass of wine in her hand, the tone of her voice suggesting it’s not her first, the Dublin accent deeper than last time Gwaine spoke to her on the phone.

 

Something rebels in Gwaine’s chest and he can’t move for a moment, just watching her, just listening to her voice, the familiar feel of her being in the room making his breath catch after so long. Arthur laughs, hoarse and awful sounding, and gives him a quick hug before pushing him towards standing. Gwaine’s momentarily distracted by how weak Arthur is, another indication of how tired he is, but then he’s up and in his mother’s arms and she smells the same.

 

“Mamma,” is all he manages, choking on it, clinging to her.

 

She laughs and sways him, one way then the other, humming in his ear, kissing his cheek, his hair, his nose, his ears, his eyes. They spin, dancing, laughing. Gwaine pulls back to look at her.

 

“Your hair’s greying!” Gwaine says.

 

“I told you that, you cheeky bugger. Look at you, anyway. You’ve gotten old, too.”

 

Gwaine supposes he deserves that, but he still pouts at her. Arthur starts coughing again and Gwaine’s reminded of him sat there.

 

“Sorry,” Arthur chokes, “that was touchi-“

 

He’s cut off by more coughing and Gwaine lets go of his mother and goes, passing a handful of tissues to Arthur. He sits beside him this time.

 

“Ma, this is Arthur. Arthur, my dear mother, Grainne.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Grainne,” Arthur says, “I practised your name.”

 

She laughs and kisses his cheek, then pulls back, frowning.

 

“Gwaine told me you were poorly, but you have quite the fever there, a mhic,” she says, pressing a hand to his forehead.

 

“Ma,” Gwaine says, “shush. Leave him be.”

 

“I’m fine, Ms Green,” Arthur croaks.

 

“He’s not fine,” Gwaine says.

 

“I can see that much. I’d guess pneumonia,” she says.

 

Sean and Jenny come in, stamping snow off their shoes, and interrupt the ridiculous back and forth, dumping their bags.

 

“We had a snowball fight,” Jenny says, grinning.

 

“Nice. Are the kids coming, Ma?” Gwaine asks, rubbing Arthur’s back when his head sinks a little.

 

“They are arriving with my brother tomorrow. Now, have you two eaten?”

 

“We had dinner on the way, we’re just going to head to bed,” Gwaine says, “can you bring the bags, Seany?”

 

“Why can’t you carry them?” Sean grumbles.

 

“Because I’m lugging this dork,” Gwaine says, heaving Arthur up to his feet and demonstrating how wobbly he is by letting go.

 

Arthur topples, stumbles, and Gwaine catches him again.

 

“Right,” Sean says.

 

“Mom, can I have icecream now? You said I had to wait till Gwaine got here, now he’s here,” Jenny wines.

 

“Say hi to Julia for me, Ma,” Gwaine says, guiding a wobbling Arthur up the stairs.

 

Arthur stops at the top to hack up his lungs again and Gwaine is about to just drag him the rest of the way, but then Sean ducks under his other arm and helps.

 

“Your boyfriend is a sad sack of shit,” he mutters, but there’s a certain tolerance to it.

 

Gwaine dumps Arthur on the bed and reaches over to ruffle Sean’s hair, pulling him into a hug and squeezing him tight.

 

“Oh, I missed you mo ghrá!” Gwaine says, into his hair.

 

“I missed ya too, but I wanna go play COD.”

 

Gwaine lets him go and leans in the doorway to watch him run helter skelter down the stairs. At fifteen he looks the same as he had at ten, six, four.

 

“I have to come home more,” Gwaine says, to Arthur, turning back to the bedroom, “I’m becoming old.”

 

“You’ve been old for ages,” Arthur says, “I feel like shit, after it’s been scraped off the bottom of someone’s shoe and then burnt because of some disease or something.”

 

“You’re mean.”

 

“Thirty is old,” Arthur says, “thirty and a half is ancient.”

 

“You’re twenty six, you’re catching up quickly.”

 

“I’m twenty five for another four months. Piss off.”

 

Gwaine laughs and kisses Arthur’s shoulder, pulling off his shirt. He gets himself into his pyjamas before even attempting to get Arthur from his prone position. Arthur grumbles and groans and goes limp and coughs at Gwaine, but eventually sits up and lets Gwaine feed him antibiotics and shove, thread and squeeze him into a soft t-shirt and underwear.

 

“I want my jama bottoms,” Arthur whines.

 

Gwaine would be more irritated if Arthur’s cheeks weren’t a hectic pink while the rest of his skin is pale and he’s covered in sweat. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, and the way he looks up at Gwaine is full of trust and exhaustion. So Gwaine just tugs off his underwear and gets his bottoms on. Arthur leans his head onto Gwaine’s shoulder, hand curling around his neck.

 

“I’m such a dick,” Arthur says.

 

“I love your dick.”

 

“I am so not up to that. I wish. I could maybe pull you off? Or you could always rub one out on my arse, you like that.”

 

Gwaine laughs, pressing his face into Arthur’s chest.

 

“That sounds amazingly awesome,” Gwaine says, “you sell it so nicely.”

 

“Shut up. I’m tired, haven’t got the energy to seduce you.”

 

“Maybe I seduce you,” Gwaine says, leaning up to kiss Arthur, guiding him to lay back on the bed and crawling up over him.

 

“Mm,” Arthur murmurs, then falls asleep.

 

Gwaine laughs, softening it so he doesn’t wake the idiot, and goes about extracting the covers from under him and tucking him in. He settles in to read, waiting for the first of the fever-dreams that disturb Arthur’s nights constantly.

 

Gwaine sleeps till half ten and leaves Arthur still in bed, padding downstairs in search of coffee. Julia’s in the kitchen, singing to herself. Gwaine watches her, waiting for her to notice him and feed him coffee. She turns, shrieks, drops the mug in her hand and then catches it.

 

“Good reflexes,” Gwaine drawls.

 

“Not the way to get coffee out of me.”

 

She brings him coffee anyway.

 

“Am I meeting your boyfriend?” she asks, once he’s at the table with toast and coffee and fruit and stuff.

 

“He’s ‘sleep,” Gwaine says, stuffing his face, “good.”

 

“My, your gratitude warms the cockles of my heart, young man.”

 

Gwaine grins at her, finishes eating. She gives him a half hug and wanders off, probably to give his Mum a patented hangover cure. Sean comes running in after a bit, grabs a coke from the fridge and hurtles out again. Jenny comes and sits and talks at him for five minutes. Then Arthur stumbles in, and Gwaine interrupts Jenny to jump to his feet.

 

“Arthur, god, you look awful,” Gwaine says, patting randomly at Arthur’s shoulder.

 

“I’m good,” Arthur says, grinning and imitating Gwaine’s petting motion.

 

“Oh shut up, you look like you’re about to collapse, don’t blame me for being nice.”

 

Jenny laughs and laughs at them, then gets Arthur a cup of tea and puts honey in it, babbling about it being good for sore throats. She breaks into Spanish at one point, by accident, and then Arthur answers in his stumbling accent and they’re off, and Gwaine has no idea what they’re talking about but the way their eyes slide to him now and then and the amount Jenny laughs and Arthur coughs suggests it’s him.

 

“Gwaine!”

 

Gwaine looks up and grins, again leaping up from the table, as Percy strolls into the kitchen as if it hasn’t been nearly a year since Gwaine’s seen him. Gwaine jumps into his arms, wrapping his legs round Percy’s waist and kissing his stupid face.

 

“Yeah!” Gwaine says, “Perce, my man!”

 

“Good to see you too, you twat head! It’s been too long. What’ve you been doing with yourself? Other than not visiting me?” Percy says.

 

“I have been holed up with my sexy, hot, rich boyfriend in a place with a hot tub and Champaign and other luxuries,” Gwaine says, as Percy sets him back on his own feet.

 

“He hasn’t been doing that,” Arthur says, getting to his feet and taking Percy’s hand in his own, “hi, I’m Arthur. The hot sexy rich boyfriend. I don’t have a hot tub.”

 

“Percy,” Percy says, “so what has he been up to, if not that?”

 

“Not a lot. He pretends to be doing artistic things, but I’ve never come in to find him covered in paint so I suspect he’s lying,” Arthur says.

 

“Hey! Piss off,” Gwaine says, “I’ve been writing. Also, you’re a twat. I’m not going to baby you anymore.”

 

“But I’m so weak and pathetic,” Arthur says, then he blinks, “oh, hey, actually, I’m just gonna sit down again cus th’room’s a bit spinny.”

 

Arthur follows his own advice, but doesn’t bother to move back across to his chair, just sits where he is. Percy catches him and Gwaine loves him a little more for that.

 

“Alright, fine,” he says, “I give in to emotional blackmail, I will baby you. What do you need?”

 

“I’m good,” Arthur says, waving a hand, “I’m fine.”

 

“You know that collapsing doesn’t do much to back you up, right?” Jenny says.

 

“When is Uncle Oisin coming with the kids?” Gwaine asks, flicking Jenny’s ear, “and she’s right, Arthur.”

 

“I’m fine,” Arthur says.

 

“He’ll be here late, you probably won’t see-“ Jenny says, then Arthur cuts her off.

 

“G?” Arthur breathes, tilting to the left, “Uh, not so fine, here.”

 

Gwaine crouches beside him, reaching to steady him.

 

“What’s up?” Gwaine asks.

 

“I need to lie down. Like, now.”

 

Gwaine considers just dumping Arthur on the kitchen floor, but Arthur gives him a look that promises all sorts of retribution if Gwaine doesn’t get him somewhere comfortable so Gwaine gives up that idea and hauls Arthur back upstairs.

 

“Why’d you come down if you felt like this?” Gwaine grumbles as Arthur wriggles his way into a cocoon of blankets.

 

“Didn’t.”

 

“Yeah, you did, you definitely came down.”

 

“Didn’t feel this shit till I was standing.”

 

Gwaine gets out the thermometer and checks Arthur’s temperature before making him drink, then he sighs and pets Arthur’s hair until he dozes off. Gwaine is about to go back downstairs to see the family they flew across the Atlantic to visit, but then he subsides and pulls out the ipad instead. He’s tired, and not really in the mood. Someone knocks on the door to interrupt before he gets very far into internet land.

 

“Yeah?” He says.

 

“It’s Julia, can I come in?”

 

“Sure. What’s up?”

 

Julia slides into the room and comes to sit on the bed, peering at Arthur.

 

“Want me to check him over?” she asks.

 

“Nah, he’s alright. I checked his temperature and fed him liquid. I think he’s just knackered.”

 

“Mm. Sounds about right.”

 

“You just come here for that?”

 

“No. I… this might sound a tad… strange. I… I’m not really sure where to begin.”

 

Gwaine goggles at her.

 

“JuJu, I have never seen you nervous before. This is certainly strange.”

 

“Hush, you. Okay, so I’ll start at the beginning. In the early nineties I went to Dublin, with a friend who was tracing her family.”

 

“I know this story,” Gwaine complains, because he’s heard it a hundred times.

 

“I don’t,” Arthur mumbles, making Gwaine jump, “don’t be rude, G. Go on. Though, you know, I don’t know who the stranger in our bed is. I would guess you are Julia?”

 

“I am. I apologise for waking you.”

 

“Don’t. I was falling a long way.”

 

Gwaine ruffles Arthur’s hair. The lump hasn’t even moved.

 

“He means a dream. Go on, Ju,” Gwaine says.

 

“While I was in Dublin I was not in a very good place, emotionally. I spent the whole month we were there getting incredibly drunk and making bad decisions. One of those bad decisions got me arrested, and I met a woman in the cell called Grainne. She’d been arrested for causing a public disturbance while protesting. We got to talking and, somehow, I ended up being bundled off by her to a cottage in the country side.”

 

“Ma tells it that Julia clearly needed a long rest, not a slew of drunken nights alone. So she carted her off to the middle of nowhere, abandoning her friend,” Gwaine says.

 

“She told me I should stay longer, try and sort myself out, and she was willing to offer me a place to do that if I did some babysitting and housework in return,” Julia says, “and so I met you, Gwaine. Nine years old and too clever for your own good, always in trouble, with sly fingers that were always dipping into things that weren’t yours. You used to come home with all kinds of treasure and I’d have to take you round the village returning it all and apologising.”

 

“He still does that, nicks shiny things,” Arthur mumbles, “magpie.”

 

“Your mother wanted me there so she could go to protests, on marches, demanding peace and rights for the dead. And I wanted to be there. No one for miles around, a quiet life with a child and a woman who came and went but when there was always affectionate and kind and warm. I fell in love, and ended up staying more than a year.”

 

Arthur starts to cough and they have to pause while Gwaine moves Arthur from splayed on his front to curled on his side and finds him tissues and the water bottle. Arthur coughs on and on and Gwaine feels tears prick at his eyes and rough, tearing, painful sound.

 

“God,” he says, when Arthur finally subsides.

 

“It’s good, believe it or not,” Julia says, “the gunk is loosening and coming up, which is good.”

 

Arthur moans and presses into Gwaine’s hip.

 

“Go on, Julia,” Gwaine says.

 

“Alright. I realised that I hadn’t fallen in love with the house and you and the countryside. Or rather, I had, but the love that was holding me there was for Grainne, and it was not platonic. I decided it was time to move on, so I packed up and planned my departure. You cried for the whole day before I left, though we hadn’t told you much about it.”

 

“Embarrassing,” Gwaine says, though it’s not.

 

“It was flattering. I cried, too, the whole flight home. And then, a month later I open my door and find Grainne on my doorstep, a suitcase in one hand, you at her shoulder. Eleven years old and already looking after her. They threatened her, and she carried on, but then they threatened you and she ran. And she ran to me. Of course, I offered my home, as she had done. I had a job at the local hospital and it was her doing the housework, now, keeping hearth and home while I came and went at odd hours. It wasn’t that different. I had to be careful not to let myself be too free with affection, not to give in to the instinct to kiss her hello and goodbye. It took a year before she noticed.”

 

“Arthur?” Gwaine asks, thinking he’s fallen asleep.

 

Arthur just snores at him.

 

“Shall I stop?” Julia asks.

 

“No, go on. He won’t wake up from talking. He has these dreams, that’s what woke him, before. Nightmares. He has a few things, in his past. I dunno.”

 

“Don’t we all? When she noticed, Grainne sent me out to work and made a cake and wrote ‘I am in love with you, too’ on it in icing. She was collecting you from school when I got back so I had to wait half an hour. It felt like years. And then we had to wait for- right I’ll skip that bit.”

 

“I know that you and my mother have sex sometimes,” Gwaine says, “but please do skip.”

 

Julia laughs at him and pats his hair.

 

“Alright. Four years later we adopted Sean, and Grainne let me teach her Spanish so he could have his heritage be part of his life. I let her teach me a bit of Gaelic, though she said that wasn’t so important for him to be fluent in. And then, Jenny. And here we all are. The three of you are all grown up, I’ve lived with Grainne for so long, I know all her little habits, her stupidities, her kindnesses. I love her, Gwaine. I love our story together and I love her. I would like to marry her, now that we’ve raised you all and can think about ourselves. Now that it’s becoming legal. I know that she doesn’t really want to do it until it’s legal all over the states, but the supreme court is behind it now and it’s all happening very fast. I think she might say yes.”

 

“She will,” Gwaine says, “it’s why she campaigns so hard, it’s because she wants it for herself.”

 

“She never would tell me if she was Catholic or Protestant, you know. She always told me that it had defined her so long and had been forced into her life and the division had hurt too many people, so she kept it to herself.”

 

“My father was Catholic,” Gwaine says, “he joined the IRA and was killed. But only after doing some terrible things. My mother doesn't like to consider that side of herself. It’s her secret to keep or tell, Julia. It’s hard for people not Irish to understand. The demands placed on people simply for being one or the other are so complex.”

 

“Alright. I just wasn’t sure… I know the new pope is about change and things, but…”

 

“It won’t come into it.”

 

“I actually came here to ask your permission. She hasn’t introduced me to any other family, except her brother, and I’ll be asking him tomorrow.”

 

“I say go for it, and congratulations. It would be amazing. I’ve always thought of you as her partner, so it won’t change anything for me. But I know it’ll change things for you guys, so whatever floats your boat.”

 

“You’re not big on marriage?”

 

Gwaine looks down at Arthur.

 

“I’ve thought about it, recently,” he says, “we’re no where near there yet but I’ve thought about the amorphous ‘future’. No, I don’t believe in marriage. Neither does Arthur. If we ever did it, it would be for practical reasons. I think we both have other ways of making that commitment.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

“But, like I said, I think it would be a fantastic thing for you and Mum.”

 

“Then I will ask her. Thank you, Gwaine.”

 

Gwaine watches Julia bounce out of the room. He thinks about it for a long time, idly scrolling though Facebook. About Ireland, about when Julia arrived and before she arrived, about his father. He left the states that first time because of Ireland, because he had to go back, he missed it. His mother’s made her home here, but Ireland is his. It’s the land he feels in his feet and heart, knows through his whole body, can feel the history of seeping into him whenever he’s there, can hear the stories the earth tells. He always thought his mother would go back, eventually. 'Grainne' sounds, to him, like the country, like the house he grew up in, like the struggle his father and mother both embraced.

 

It takes him a while for the emotion of her not returning to subside. He finds peace with it, though; curled up with Arthur, soothing him, easing his coughing, worrying about him, he can almost understand finding home somewhere new. He’s never managed to settle anywhere, but Arthur makes him want to find that.

 

He sits with Percy and Sean, in the conservatory, watching the snow fall around them. It’s late, he’s a little drunk, and Percy and Sean are mocking some TV star. Gwaine turns the heater up and pops the cap off another beer before settling back, watching them. Jenny retreated to bed about half an hour ago, Julia is upstairs with the smallest children, who are homesick, and his mother is sat in the livingroom having serious talks with Oisin about Ireland. Arthur’s sleeping on the sofa across the room from Gwaine, by the radiator, wheezing softly but peaceful for now.

 

“He’s doing it again, Percy,” Sean says.

 

“Oh, yeah, he is. Totally enrapt,” Percy says.

 

“Completely. Whipped as a horse with a cruel master,” Sean says.

 

Their laughter gets Gwaine’s attention and he realises they’re talking about him, and he’s staring at Arthur.

 

“Hey,” he says, half heartedly throwing the bottle cap at Sean’s head, “oh, whatever. It’s true.”

 

“You’re drunk,” Percy says, grinning.

 

“Little tipsy,” Gwaine admits, “so are you.”

 

“And so am I,” Sean says.

 

“You’re drinking Gatorade,” Gwaine says, “do you… do you guys ever think about it?”

 

“Sure,” Percy says, “all the time. It is very specific and I’m sure everyone thinks about ‘it’ night and day.”

 

“About home,” Gwaine says, ignoring that, “and where it is, how that happens. I was born in Ireland, I grew up there. It’s in my blood. But so was my mother, and she’s found a home here. And Sean, you’re from Chile, but you’ve been once and prefer it here.”

 

“My home’s here. My heritage is there, but yeah, my home’s here. I think about it,” Sean says, “a lot, actually. Me and Jenny talk about it sometimes. Moms have been insistent about us knowing where we’re from, but they’re equally insistent that we know where our family and home are.”

 

“When my family was killed,” Percy says, and Gwaine winces; he hadn’t meant to bring that up, “I thought that any kind of ‘home’ would be impossible. Not that Chechnya ever had a ‘homey’ feeling. The couple who adopted me were a bit confused about what to do with me, so while they were kind and made sure I fitted in, they never became what Julia and Grainne are to you guys.”

 

“Did that change?” Sean asks.

 

“Gwaine changed it,” Percy says, meeting Gwaine’s eyes, more serious than usual, “when we were eighteen I was such a twat, Sean, you have no idea. I was cruel and thought people being hurt was justified and funny. If I was hurt, why shouldn’t everyone else be? You can imagine I didn’t make many friends.”

 

“Yeah,” Sean says, “not the attitude for friendly banter.”

 

“I wasn’t even in Gwaine’s classes or sharing his house or anything. He came up to me in the first week when I was sat in the quad and asked if he had a bald patch on the back of his head. And then sat there and talked at me for ages about the party he’d been to. His mates joined him and they just stayed there talking. I couldn’t escape.”

 

“He was very mean,” Gwaine says, “he said he couldn’t tell because I was pretty much bald all over.”

 

“You found it hilarious. And then he saw me a week later and remembered me and made me play football with him, and then go drinking with him, and somehow he just inserted himself into my life. By the time he graduated I realised I was actually going to miss him. Until, that is, he told me he planned to stick around town and room with me and keep getting drunk and just keep being a student, without the awful work, and he expected to live off my student loan for my third year.”

 

Sean laughs and throws a cushion at Gwaine’s head, but Gwaine just shrugs.

 

“Anyway, you didn’t exactly make a home for me,” Percy says, “but you made me believe in it again.”

 

“sorry for bringing that up,” Gwaine says, “Crap, Arthur’s awake.”

 

He goes over, ignoring the other two teasing him for knowing that, and sets about soothing whatever’s infiltrated Arthur’s dreams. Arthur’s crying, which Gwaine never saw before Arthur became feverish but is now used to, and he clings to Gwaine and makes him lie down until he dozes off again.

 

“Shh,” Gwaine says, “I’m here, you twat. Go to sleep.”

 

Arthur shivers, so Gwaine pulls another blanket over him.

 

“Julia’s gonna ask Mum to marry her,” Gwaine says, “that’s what she wanted, earlier. It’s gonna be cool. We’ll have to fly back for the wedding. You can be my plus one. Unless you have pneumonia, because this is awful for you.”

 

Arthur snores at him and Gwaine laughs, pressing his face close.

 

“Alright?” Percy asks.

 

“He’s so stupid,” Gwaine says, staying where he is for a moment before getting up and returning to his beer, gulping it down, “I hate him being ill.”

 

“Because it’s gross,” Sean says.

 

“Why’d you ask about home?” Percy asks.

 

“Dunno,” Gwaine says, popping another cap, “are we gonna watch Doctor Who tomorrow?”

 

That sets Sean off on a rant about how shit Moffat is, as Gwaine knew it would. Percy gives him an assessing look but lets himself be dragged into the debate over whether Peter Capaldi is good enough to carry Moffat’s uselessness. They end up staying up till gone two am, and Percy and Gwaine are so drunk that Sean has to help them all to bed one by one, including Arthur. Gwaine pulls him into a headlock-cuddle-of-thanks before letting him go to bed.

 

Gwaine wakes in the morning, or perhaps the afternoon he can’t quite tell, to Arthur sneezing three times.

 

“Bless you,” Gwaine manages, “ugh, my mouth is disgusting.”

 

Arthur just sneezes at him in reply, so Gwaine staggers to the bathroom. When he gets back, feeling considerably more human, Arthur’s sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the jumper in his hands.

 

“Alright?” Gwaine asks.

 

“I was thinking,” Arthur says, voice a bare thread of sound, “I might sit out your morning rituals, if you wouldn’t mind. Sleep a bit more.”

 

“Is this your deep seated present anxiety, or are you feeling like crap?” Gwaine asks.

 

“Deep seated what?”

 

“You know, how you go bright red when people give you presents and can’t open them without a lot of encouragement and never know what to say and pretty much just die on the spot when they’re mentioned? I did get you presents, you do have some down there.”

 

“I do not have deep seated present anxieties.”

 

“So it’s because you’re horribly sick with pneumonia.”

 

“No! I’m not horribly sick with pneumonia. I… no! I… huh?”

 

“Don’t pull ‘confused gerbil’ on me. I know all your tricks. If you tell me I’ll let you sit out our ‘morning rituals’.”

 

“Fine,” Arthur says, flopping back onto the bed, “I have deep seated present anxiety. I admit it. I feel awkward at other people’s gift givings.”

 

“It’s your gift giving too.”

 

“It’s horrible, not knowing if the people you’ve got presents for match up with the people who’ve got presents for you, if you’ve maybe forgotten someone, if you’ve got it all wrong and the thing you bought is entirely inappropriate, and this is me and I’m useless at this so it’s all gonna be entirely inappropriate.”

 

Arthur’s knee starts jiggling and Gwaine decides to let him off. He presses Arthur’s leg to still it and then sits on the bed to dry his hair and chest and finish getting dressed, pretending to consider it.

 

“Fine,” he says at last, “hide up here. But, you have to rest and get some sleep. And you have to open stockings with me.”

 

“Stockings?”

 

Gwaine fishes around on the floor until he finds the expected stuffed socks and holds them up. Their names are pinned, one to each. Arthur stares.

 

“You still… believe in santa clause?” he suggests, taking the sock gingerly, as if it might explode, “and santa puts things in old socks for you.”

 

“Didn’t you do that? Hang up one of your socks? I hung one for you, last night, seeing as you were out of it.”

 

“I… no, I never did that. He just brought me whatever I asked the maid to procure for me,” Arthur says, looking a bit baffled.

 

“Seriously?” Gwaine says, “no santa?”

 

“Well, she only got what I wanted if I told her I wanted Santa to bring it.”

 

“You’re childhood must have been a strange, barren land,” Gwaine says, smacking a kiss onto Arthur’s forehead, “let’s open these.”

 

Arthur curls against Gwaine’s side as Gwaine tears into his stocking, emptying the whole thing onto the bed and sorting through the sweets, chocolate, nuts and fruit to see what little gift he’s got. He finds a posh fountain pen and crows his victory before turning to Arthur. Who is picking things out one by one and placing them reverently on the duvet in front of him, making little noises of delight over each jellied fruit, posh chocolate and walnut.

 

“You’re…” Gwaine starts, but it’s too… “you’re amazing, Arthur.”

 

“Huh? Oh, look, Gwaine! Look at this.”

 

Arthur holds out a glass ornament he just unwrapped for Gwaine’s inspection, but when Gwaine reaches out to touch Arthur snatches it away.

 

“Look with your eyes, not your hands,” Arthur says, “it’s mine.”

 

“My god,” Gwaine says, “you really never have done this before. What about after you left home?”

 

“I didn’t really celebrate Christmas. Merlin’s Jewish, so I did Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur with him and Hunith and Will, sometimes, after uni. The mixture of Welsh, Hebrew and English was quite something, and then Will and I started putting Spanish into the mix and… yeah, it was chaos. It was great.”

 

“But no Santa Claus.”

 

“Nope. Oh, look! An orange!”

 

Gwaine laughs at Arthur’s joy over a piece of fruit probably just taken from the bowl on the table, but then Arthur immediately peels the orange and eats that, ignoring all the sweet things spread before him, examining his decoration, and Gwaine can’t laugh at that.

 

“You’re so…” Gwaine says, again trailing off, “Arthur, really, you’re…”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur says, leaning over to kiss him, “I find it like that, too, watching you do all this.”

 

Gwaine nods and pulls Arthur into a good, tight hug, to try and limit his embarrassment. Arthur hums in contentment and falls asleep, so Gwaine’s left to clear away the debris of their stockings and hang Arthur’s ornament in the lamp, careful with it only because of the way Arthur had cradled it, before heading down the hall with his stocking to Jenny’s room, to compare.

 

After stockings Gwaine heads down for breakfast and finds his uncle there with his grandkids.

 

“Uncle Oisin,” Gwaine says, hugging him, “good to see you, mate. And Hannah and Tom, you too.”

 

They wave to him with little interest, having seen him a mere month ago, and go on eating. Oisin hugs him and makes him coffee and pancakes and they all compare stockings and pull crackers to get the jokes. Once everyone’s in the kitchen Oisin hands round little presents and they open them one by one. Small toys, books, a game for Sean, Julia and Grainne get plants for the house.

 

It’s the last moment of calm for a while. Watching Hannah, Sean, Tommy and Jenny ripping through their huge piles of presents is quite something. Paper goes everywhere, shrieks of joy and disappointment rent the air, the babble of the grown-ups talking in the background rises and falls with the level of excitement. Gwaine opens his own presents and puts the ones for Arthur aside, and when they’re all sat in a sea of paper and people are examining their stuff he sneaks upstairs.

 

“Hey,” Arthur whispers, sitting up “I’ve lost my voice.”

 

Gwaine gives him the mug of lemon and honey Jenny made for him and dumps the armful of presents on the bed. Arthur glares at him, but it fades to a look of bliss when he takes a sip of his drink.

 

“What is this?” he whispers.

 

“Lemon and honey, made by Jenny,” Gwaine says, sitting beside Arthur.

 

Arthur immediately uses him as a pillow, idly sorting through the gifts in front of him.

 

“Were the things I brought alright?” he asks, sipping his lemon, stifling a cough.

 

“Yeah, Mum especially liked the book you picked out. Sean and Jenny are always pleased to be given food they’re not usually allowed and Tom and Hannah like the pyjamas.”

 

“You chose those.”

 

“Whatever, it was your idea to give pyjamas. Anyway, open yours. I wanna see what you got.”

 

“They’re from you!”

 

“Not all of them.”

 

Arthur looks at the labels and goes pinks, ears darkening to red.

 

“Oh,” Arthur says, “they didn’t have to…. Oh. What did you get?”

 

“A few books, a new notepad, gift card, um… oh, I got an ipad! Awesome stuff. From Mum and JuJu. I don't have to nick yours anymore. And Oisin gave me… can’t remember. I know it was cool, though.”

 

Arthur puts the mug on the side and picks up a square package. He opens it so slowly and carefully, as if the paper is the best part of it, that Gwaine gets frustrated and tears it off himself.

 

“Oi!” Arthur says, voice cracking like a pre-teen, snatching the present out of his reach, “oh. You got it for me.”

 

“Green Kitchen Stories. You can cook to your heart’s content and spend hours telling me how weird and hard to get the ingredients are.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Open the next one! You can read that later.”

 

Arthur sighs, but it makes him cough and he has to sit upright and cough for ages and by the time he’s done he’s limp and exhausted. He slumps back against Gwaine, curling in close.

 

“Can you open the rest?” Arthur says, “I promise to watch and make ooh and ahh noises.”

 

Gwaine weighs the options and decides that watching Arthur painstakingly open all of these might be torture.

 

“Okay. This is one from Ma and Julia,” he says, “I don’t know what it is.”

 

He tears the paper and three wooden paddles fall out into his lap.

 

“What?” he says.

 

Arthur picks them up, though, and sighs in pleasure.

 

“These are beautiful,” he whispers, “cookie moulds. For Speculaas and shortbread and things. Look, it’s a fish. Wow. This is amazing.”

 

Arthur is similarly appreciative of the rest of the things. The socks and chocolate, the book from Oisin. There’s nothing big from Gwaine but Arthur holds onto the microwaveable stuffed bear and wraps the scarf around his neck and thanks Gwaine as if he’s been given the world.

 

“I got one for you,” Arthur says, “I hadn’t wrapped it yet. Did it while you were downstairs.”

 

He gives Gwaine a lumpy package wrapped very badly, and Gwaine laughs. Arthur opens his mouth to defend himself but starts coughing instead, which is traumatic as ever.

 

“Better?” Gwaine says, once Arthur’s settled a bit and had a sip of water and some more lemon and honey.

 

“Open it.”

 

Gwaine tears off the paper, flinging it off the bed, followed by the bubble wrap layer, and then stops.

 

“Oh, Arthur,” he says.

 

“You said… I mean… is it okay?”

 

Gwaine breathes out, running a finger over the illustration on the cover.

 

“Is this a first edition?”

 

“Mhmm. Found it at Hay, when we went to the festival when we were in England last summer.”

 

“Thank you,” Gwaine says.

 

He opens the book to the first page.

 

“Shit, this is incredible. Arthur. This must have cost…”

 

“A lot. Don’t worry about that. I know you didn’t want me to go over the top, but I thought this didn’t count.”

 

“No, this definitely counts.”

 

“Well I know it counts, but I mean I didn’t think you could bear to give it back, so you’d have to keep it.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right. I can’t bear to give it back. You bastard.”

 

Arthur beams at him.

 

“You total bastard,” Gwaine says again, but he’s grinning back.

 

On his birthday Arthur had tried to give him a car. They’d only been dating about a month and Gwaine had made him take it back to the shop. On their two month anniversary Arthur had bought him a laptop, because his had broken. A really, really nice and very very expensive laptop. Gwiane had taken that back, too.

 

“Damn it,” Gwaine says, “yeah, I’m keeping this.”

 

“Good. I’m sorry, because I know it’s not right for me to spend… but, I mean…”

 

“It makes me feel bad because I can’t give you things like this.”

 

Arthur laughs, which makes him cough for a full five minutes, bending over his lap and holding onto his chest, and he’s left wheezing and miserable, curled into Gwaine’s lap.

 

“For my birthday you made me a collection of short stories, hand written and hand-bound, self-illustrated,” Arthur says, “that’s something I can never give you. There are things where neither of us can compete. I get why you gave the car and the computer back, I do, but I still think this… my throat and chest hurt and I’m so tired.”

 

“Okay, okay. I get it. You know I gave you that because I had no money, right?”

 

Arthur just shrugs and curls up, bruised eyes closing. Gwaine clear up around him again and goes down with his book. He finds Julia and his Mum in the kitchen, Julia cooking.

 

“The others went for a walk,” his Mum says, smiling at him, “what have you got there?”

 

“I’m not bringing it further than the doorway,” Gwaine says, “Arthur gave me a first edition Blake.”

 

Julia turns from the stove to whistle and Grainne gets up and comes over, then changes direction and goes to wash her hands.

 

“Livingroom, now,” she says, “I want to have a look.”

 

They sit together, heads bent over it, for hours.

 

Later Arthur comes down in his Christmas sweater, looking far skinnier than he had last time he wore that red jumper, and joins them for lunch. Mordred’s come over from New York, a friend of Percy’s, and Gwaine is a little fascinated by him so he lets Arthur be for most of the time. Arthur gets through the whole thing with relative enthusiasm and energy, but once things are mostly cleared away and people are sharing cracker jokes and the Tommy’s refusing to finish up his sprouts and Julia’s gone to find cake and mince pies and things, Gwaine glances over and finds Arthur, head in hands, half asleep.

 

“Are you okay?” Gwaine asks, running a thumb over Arthur’s back.

 

“Yeah,” Arthur whispers, voice gone again, “Might duck out, though.”

 

“Sure, go have a nap. There’s be plenty of food if you’re worried about missing that.”

 

“I… I don’t mind missing that. I mind missing all of it. Your family, you.”

 

“I’ll come with you,” Gwaine decides, “then you won’t miss me.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Come on. Guys, we’re going to go and have a nap to make more room for pudding,” Gwaine says.

 

Everyone boos and his Mum gets stuck in telling about the time Gwaine made the announcement that he was going to make room and then going up to the bathroom to have a poo. Gwaine’s glad Arthur doesn’t hear that, but then they get to their room and he realises that Arthur’s laughing, hand pressed to his chest, trying to stop.

 

“I’m going to make room,” he says, cackling.

 

Gwaine doesn’t have to do anything to make it stop, Arthur sets himself off coughing and can’t laugh any more. Gwaine shakes his head and gets Arthur into bed, crawling in after him.

 

“Read me one of your books,” Arthur demands, “please?”

 

“Hey, Arthur?”

 

“Mm?”

 

Gwaine looks at him, mouth hanging open. He can do this, though. He can say it.

 

“Arthur, I love you.”

 

Arthur sits up, stares at Gwaine, and starts coughing so violently Gwaine is honestly a bit scared. Arthur retches on phlegm and scrambles out of bed. Gwaine follows and stands in the doorway as Arthur spits into the sink over and over, then stands, leaning, shaking.

 

“Arthur?” Gwaine says, “Sorry?”

 

Arthur turns, and he looks awful. White skinned, sweaty, so tired. He stumbles to Gwaine and kisses him.

 

“Oh my god,” he says, “you said it. You actually said it. Was it painful?”

 

“It seemed to be, for you.”

 

Arthur nods.

 

“I’d say something,” Arthur says, “but, fuck, yeah, that hurt.”

 

Gwaine leads him back to bed and Arthur curls up, still staring at Gwaine, wide eyed. He pulls until Gwaine lies beside him and then Arthur reaches out, tracing the lines of Gwaine’s face, the softness of his cheek, his stubble.

 

“I love you,” Arthur says, “been waiting to say it till I thought you wouldn't run.”

 

“Sorry,” Gwaine says.

 

“Love you,” Arthur says again, smiling, eyes closed, cradling Gwaine’s face, “I love you.”

 

“I love you, too,” Gwaine whispers.

 

Arthur falls asleep with a stupid, dopey grin on his face. And Gwaine can’t bring himself to find it anything except lovely.

 

 


End file.
